War is Over
by Novemberly
Summary: Grace has a secret. Jones has a mission. Adi has a problem. And Card has a gun. Nothing is as it seems. This is the story of the very first Hunger Games, so you can bet all you've got that someone's not going to come out alive.
1. End of the World

.

 **JONES**

 **6:53 AM - OCT 22**

Ash on the ground.

Ash in the air.

Ash in my lungs.

My throat burns. The smoke smells like chalk and iron, tastes like acid in my mouth. The air is freezing. There's a gash on my arm, but I can barely feel it. I don't know what time it is, I can't see the sun. I don't know how long I've been walking—I just know I have to get to the bunker before sunset. Sunset is when they send over the nukes. I have to find the rest of the team, they've got to be here somewhere.

When did the last one drop? Half an hour ago? More?

I nearly trip over a bicycle lying on the ground. It was covered in so much pale ash that it blended in with the ground.

I step over it and try to keep a better eye on the road.

My breath billows into the chilly air as I walk. The city is deserted, not a soul in sight. They must've evacuated before the first one hit. Either that or they're lying cold somewhere under piles of debris and bleak gray ash.

Still, I keep looking for Grace. She promised she'd be here before me, she promised she'd find the rest of us. I can't remember the details of her instructions, my brain doesn't want to. There's a ringing in my ears and my stomach is churning.

I keep walking. Something's wrong with my ankle, it doesn't turn right. I've walked blocks and blocks now.

I can't recall the directions exactly, I just know I have to keep walking. The gnawing pain in my head won't go away. I think I hit it on something, just before I passed out. Hit it hard. It feels wrong, like something's missing.

The smoke smells acrid, caustic. The sky is cloudy and overcast, but I have to squint. Even the dim gray feels too bright.

The landscape is nice to look at—bleak skeletons of buildings, wreathed in white. Ash falls through the air like snow. It's very pretty here.

God, I'm tired.

I can feel a dull tingling in my legs, but nothing else. My body's been numb since I woke up. It's like—

There.

Out by those buildings in the distance. Movement.

There's someone else out here.

I hear something that echoes in the back of my head. Was that my name? Why was it so quiet?

I break into a run, ignoring my loose ankle. I left my heels behind in the building when I woke up. Good decision. It's hard enough to run over slippery ash as it is.

That voice again. Louder. It's definitely my name, I'm sure of it now.

Without warning, someone grabs me from behind.

I whip around, slamming my elbow into their face with a crunch. It was an instinctual reaction—I automatically step back and plant my feet in defense position. My ambusher is doubled over, clutching their face. I realize too late who it is.

"Callie! Oh. Oh, Lord." I rush to her and force her head out of her hands. Her nose is bleeding, but she looks alright otherwise.

"Dear god, Jones…" She coughs, and I can see the ash that coats her tongue. "I'm already half-dead, you don't need to finish the job."

Her voice sounds wrong. It's raspy like mine, and filled with ash, but it sounds too distant. She's a foot from me, I shouldn't be struggling to hear her.

"I think you broke my nose. You better pray that you didn't - the thing cost a fortune."

It sounds like we're underwater. Come to think of it, I hadn't heard a single thing since I woke up, before her voice. The city was evacuated, but there must have been sirens somewhere, there must have been planes overhead. Even my own footsteps were soundless.

The blast must have damaged my ears—that had to be it. I was unconscious when it happened, but the bomb must've hit hard. Hard enough to deafen me, at least temporarily.

"Oh god, I think it is broken. This isn't good at all."

Calpurnia Grace's accent is still lovely, even in that raspy, wheezing voice. A pretty District-One affectation, half Capitol and half something else. It's charming when you first get to know her, but unimaginably annoying after a while. Just like the rest of her.

"How did you find me?" I let go of her head and she immediately draws back. She has a thing with personal space.

"I saw you, darling. Middle-aged hispanic woman. Slightly overweight. Wearing an unflattering suit. Wandering aimlessly around in the middle of a city street, confused and slowly dying of smoke inhalation. All evidence points to Mrs. Rose Jones!" She grins and bats her eyelashes at me, ignoring the fact that she looks just as terrible after half an hour of walking through a hazard zone.

I scowl at her, but she doesn't pay attention. She's like this a lot. "We should get to the bunker. Where's everyone else?"

"Well. See, darling…" Grace coughs again. I can nearly see the ash coming out of her throat. "I was still at the police station, but the boys had left hours before me. And since those pesky bombs knocked out the network, I can't call them to find out where they are."

I don't respond for a second - she looks so different. There's mascara smeared on one side of her cheek, lipstick on the other. Her platinum blonde hair, always flawlessly done up, hangs half out of its clip in a tangled cloud. Her porcelain-doll skin is caked with dust.

"Well…" I trail off. My brain is still muddy and addled, my head still aching. I can't think straight, not since I hit my head. "We should get to the bunker. Maybe they're already there."

Mrs. Grace looks at me with something between confusion and concern. "Jones. Darling."

"What?" I ask, irritated.

"Do you… know where the bunker is?"

"Yeah, 'course. It's under that old apartment building on… the street. I can't remember the number."

"Thirteenth street, darling."

"Yeah."

She nods, slowly, like she's talking to a child. "And we're on one hundred sixty-fifth street."

"Oh," I say quietly.

"Yes…" Grace trails off.

There's silence for a second. Ash floats through the air like snow.

"That's… far." My voice still sounds wrong.

Grace sighs. "It would be a breeze if we had a car, darling. But on foot? No. No, it would be hours."

"Then what're we going to do?"

She looks at me again, wheezing. "Well," she coughs. "I thought you would have come up with something."

Slowly, I shake my head. She doesn't seem too disappointed - it's like she was expecting it. But that little bit of hope, that little glimmer in her eyes, it's gone.

"When does the last bomb drop? The nuke, I mean."

"Not too long now. Only forty-five minutes or so." Grace tries to run a hand through her hair, but it catches on tangles. "The… eh… They're going to want to take out the first aid crews, and the other rebels that are coming to help. If they wait to long to drop the nuke, the rest of them would be gone."

"That's their thing, right? The Capitol's thing. That, uh, one-two punch."

Grace nods, rubbing her bare arms. She's wearing a stylish blouse and a pencil skirt, hardly suitable for the situation.

"It's, uh. It's cold out here. Pretty cold for September, right?"

Grace pauses. She stares at me with a weird look on her face. I can't see what she's thinking. "September? Jones. Darling. It's October twenty-second."

"What?" I squint at her. The light's too bright. "No. It's… it's… Is it October?

She's tapping her foot. She looks tense now. "Jones, what's my middle name?"

I roll my eyes and scowl at her. I can't deal with her nonsense now, my head hurts too much. "I don't know! You never told me."

"I told you two days ago."

"Oh. Well, I forgot."

"Jones, what's _your_ middle name?" Her lips are pursed, her stare intense.

"I…" I pause. I know my middle name. I know I do. I just… can't think of it. "It starts with an M!" I say decisively.

"Jesus, Jones!" Grace yells. "You hit your head, didn't you?"

"No…" I lie.

"Yes you did. I saw you rubbing it earlier. You're feeling nauseous, right? And irritable? You're even squinting! For gods' sake, you're concussed!"

I make a point of not squinting at her, even though the light's hurting my eyes. I know what's happening now. Grace does this a lot. When someone's hurt, she gets mad at them. She can't help it, she just doesn't like it when people know she's worried. And she is worried right now. She's trying to hide it, but she is.

"Jones? Rose Maria Jones, are you there?"

Maria. That was it. Damn, I know that.

"Yes. I'm… I know. I'm concussed. Sorry."

"What? No, don't apologize! It's not your fault you're too stupid to tell me when your brain's swelling up."

"Really? Cause you're talking like it -"

"Just…" She takes a deep breath. "Okay. I'm very sorry for getting angry. You're injured. I should not be doing that. I apologize."

I know she means it, 'cause her lips are pursed and her eyebrows are creased and she's not trying to be all sweet and smiley like she does when she's lying.

I sigh. "It's weird, Grace. Most people feel sorry for someone who's hurt."

She huffs in a haughty accent, if huffs can have accents.

"Well, I'm—" Abruptly, she stops. Her eyes are focused on something way over my shoulder.

"Grace? Callie, what is it?"

Without warning, she breaks into a sprint. She nearly shoves me out of the way, and when I regain my balance, I can see what she's running to.

There's a truck rolling through the ashy street a few blocks down. Its white paint is chipped and dirty, but the symbol of Panem is still visible on the door. It's a military truck. Capitol military.

"Oi! Hey! Over here!" Grace is jumping up and down now, shouting at the top of her lungs. Without thinking, I run to follow her.

For a few seconds, I don't think the truck sees us. It keeps rolling along the brick-strewn asphalt at the same speed. Just when I think it's going to pass behind the next building and leave us behind, it brakes abruptly.

Grace stops shouting and runs faster, hurdling debris like a professional. She's thin and willowy, and I'm built nothing like her. I'm heavier and not nearly as agile, but at least I'm strong enough to push that stack of crates away instead of climbing over it.

We reach the truck in what seems like seconds, and by the time I arrive, Grace is already at the window. The driver is a young man, and he seems straight, judging by the way he's smiling at her like an idiot. Thank God for that. Even with her hair undone and her makeup smeared away, Grace has enough charm to convince someone to jump off a building.

"We thought we were going to die!" she says in her pristine accent. "I was so scared, you wouldn't even believe!"

The driver nods, enraptured. Past him, I catch a glimpse of an older man with a buzzcut and a scar across his face. They're wearing the same uniform, but I have a feeling that the older guy is the one calling the shots. He's staring at Grace too, but with suspicion. He glances over to me and our eyes meet. Neither of us say a word, but we seem to be thinking the same thing—that boy in the driver's seat doesn't know what he's got coming.

"Oh, darling! Thank the Lord above that you found us, it must be divine miracle!" Grace croons. I roll my eyes. I know for a fact she's a staunch atheist. She must've caught a glimpse of the cross strung around the boy's neck. I'm a bit surprised, even though I know better. Sometimes I forget how much of a pro she is at this. Sometimes I forget that she can change herself so easily.

"So… please, darling? I know you're not supposed to, but… can you make an exception? For me?" She clasps her hands, subtly pushing up her cleavage.

I doubt she even needed to—Army Boy is already convinced. He can barely open the door fast enough.

She smiles bashfully as he climbs out and opens up the back seat for us. He offers a hand to help Grace into the truck, and her cheeks turn pink when she takes it. God, she can even blush on command. Stone cold pro.

.

.

.

.

"… And that's how I got into modeling! Fascinating, isn't it!"

We're five minutes into the drive, and I'm beginning to regret coming along. I can hear only Grace's side of the conversation from behind the back seat, but I'm getting a fine picture of what's going on. They're taking us to that old apartment building on thirteenth street, where they think Grace's beloved father is. But they have to cover the rest of the precinct first, to make sure there aren't any survivors left behind.

"Oh, of course, darling! For the record, those casting directors had no idea what they were talking about." Their conversation is insufferable even from back here.

The driver says something else, and Grace breaks into pretty peals of laughter. They can't hear it, but I groan.

The truck hits a bump, and shoots a wave of pain through my ankle. The others can't even feel it, they're sitting on nice comfy seats. I wish I was too, but Army Boy made me lie down in the space behind the back seat, with a bag of ice on my head and a foul-smelling tank top covering my eyes. He said it was all they could do about my concussion.

I have to admit, the young man had been very attentive to me since I got in the truck. Maybe it was an act of human kindness. Or maybe it was the fact that Grace had described me as such a 'loving, supportive, adoring mother, to whom I owe everything in my life'.

 _Mother._ God damn it, we're the same age.

The truck hits another bump, and I feel queasy.

"Pardon me, but doesn't that radio say 'Emergency Broadcast', darling?"

"Oh!" I can hear the boy's exclamation from back here.

He says something else, and Grace laughs. "Yes, I think that would be a good idea, darling."

The volume on the radio is switched back on. I didn't know those things had a mute option.

"… ernment of Panem, murder, conspiracy, and treason. If seen, please report immediately," the broadcast finishes, the beginning of its sentence cut off.

"It will repeat, won't it, darling?" Grace asks. The driver replies with something that sounds like a yes.

"Repeat. Emergency alert," it begins again, in a raspy, commanding voice filled with static. "Troops in the red zone of District Three are advised to be on lookout for a white female, mid-forties, blonde hair, blue eyes, last seen wearing a white shirt and gray skirt. Most likely accompanied by a hispanic female, mid-forties, last seen wearing a white shirt, black skirt, and gray blazer. Both have been spotted in the area."

I can only see her shoulders and the back of her head, but I know she's gone. Charming, smiling Callie has fallen away, and only Mrs. Grace is left now. Her shoulders are raised, her muscles tense. She leans down nonchalantly, pretending to fix her skirt. As she does, she puts something on the floor and silently kicks it towards me.

It's a gun.

The broadcast continues. "… These women are wanted for terrorism, disturbing the peace, inciting a riot, assault, aggressions against the government of Panem, murder, conspiracy, and treason. If seen, please report immediately." The broadcast dissolves into static and then cuts out.

There's silence for a moment. Then the sharp, unmistakable _click_ of a gun's safety switching off.

"Alright, boys." Grace's voice is cold now. "I'm going to need you to step out of the car."


	2. Peaches

.

 **JONES**

 **7:01 AM - OCT 22**

We left them by the side of the road, alone against the ash-covered sidewalk.

I try not to glance at them in the rearview mirror as we drive away. I keep my eyes locked on the tiny video screen on the dashboard, still flashing "Emergency Broadcast" in sickly green letters. I can still make out their reflections in the blurry corner of my eye, but I don't have to look. I don't have to look as long as I stay focused on the screen.

Bit by bit, they disappear from sight.

"They'll be… okay, right?" my voice is shakier than I intend.

Grace snorts haughtily. "Oh, they'll be fine, darling. We're lucky they didn't have their guns on them, or we'd be the ones left on the side of the road. Likely in a body bag."

"But… the nuke. It's dropping soon, right? What if they don't get out in time?"

"Jones!" Grace laughs. "Don't worry about them. They're Capitol dogs – they should be glad I didn't bloody kill them on the spot."

I sigh, and fiddle with the icepack in my hand.

"You should really be keeping that on your head, sweetheart. You are quite concussed."

I grunt. "I think I'm better now."

Grace looks at me skeptically.

"Really. The stomachache's gone, and I'm not feeling dizzy anymore."

She raises her eyebrows. "If you say so."

Grace is driving recklessly. She seems to be going out of her way to hit every bump on the road. I don't bother trying to convince her anymore. Instead, I stare out the window at the empty city streets whizzing by, and the ash falling through the air. Something must have exploded overhead – this much ash can't have come from just the bombs.

It looks like snow, all white and fluffy, drifting from the alabaster clouds. It never snowed where I grew up. Too warm, down in the peach groves. Too sunny.

I close my eyes. I lied to Grace – I'm still a bit dizzy.

Grace's terrible driving isn't helping my motion sickness, so I try to block it out. With my eyes closed, with sounds dampened by my damaged ears, I can try to imagine that I'm somewhere else.

My head hurts. My concussion has stopped getting better. I try to remember the smell of peaches, the warmth of southern sun, the feeling of grass beneath my feet. I try to hold on to them, to get away from this chilly, bleak, ash-covered world. I can't grasp the memory, not quite. I reach for more – flapjacks, iced tea, the thin film of dust on the weathered boards of our front porch. I have to remember. I have to.

But I can't.

I tell myself that it's the concussion. On some level, I know that's a lie. I've spent too long up north, up here in the city, surrounded by metal and graphite and frost.

When I exhale, the breath is choked and shaky. My eyes feel wet. I open them again stare out the window, trying to think of the ash. Not the soldiers we left by the side of the road, not the missile heading towards us right this second, not even the peach trees lining the old dirt path down to my old house.

Because some part of me doesn't want to think of those peach trees. Because it knows that, deep down, all I want to do is go back to those trees, and walk down that path, and sip iced tea on that old porch swing with the frayed green-and-white cushions. And if I think about any of those things, I'll know just how much I've forgotten. And I don't want to know.

I've even forgotten what peaches taste like.

.

.

.

.

"Jones. Jones!"

I blink my eyes groggily open. Did I fall asleep?

"Jones. Wake up, darling."

I'm still tired. Real tired. I close my eyes again.

"Damn it, Rose!"

Someone punches me in the arm and I sit up with a jolt.

"Ugh…" I groan, rubbing my shoulder. "That hurt."

"Good," Grace snaps.

It occurs to me that I'm soaking wet. I look down, and find that the bag of ice I was holding had opened up at some point, dumping chilly water all over my skirt. I groan again and look around for something to sop it up.

"You're not supposed to sleep when you're concussed, you know," Grace says as she winds the truck round a corner. "You could die."

"Wouldn't be that bad, at this point." I dab at my skirt with a grimy tissue.

Grace declines to respond, instead taking a sip from a silver thermos she'd found next to her seat.

"How long was I out?" I ask.

"Not too long, darling. Just a few minutes. If these blasted bricks weren't everywhere, we'd be at the bunker by now."

I lean over the dashboard to look at the road. Grace is right. The further downtown we get, the worse the destruction is. There are bricks scattered through the road, and I catch a glimpse of a good few floors of a skyscraper, lying ruined on the asphalt a few streets over.

"Jones, sweetheart. Could you do something for me?"

I grunt in response.

"Could you reach behind your chair and see if you find anything? I've been in trucks like these more than couple times, and I have a feeling there's something quite important that I haven't found yet."

I sigh, and crane my arm behind my chair. The gash on my arm burns in protest, but I grit my teeth. I grope around on the floor for a bit before my fingers brush something cold and silky smooth. I grab it and pull it out onto my lap.

"Oh! That must be their tab! Fantastic, darling!" Grace had taken her eyes off the road, and we jostle over a sackful of bricks almost immediately.

I tap on the smooth black screen, and it lights up in response. The tablet is small, about the size of a piece of paper, and almost as thin.

"This is great," I remark as the loading screen comes up. "All their files must be on here."

Grace snorts. "And the capitol supplies their military with these things. They're a commercial brand - almost no security. Almost their worst idea since breeding a bunch of chickadees to spy on us."

"Blue jays, Grace. Not chickadees."

She rolls her eyes, and the truck bumps over another chunk of debris. "Whatever."

I snort, and then tap the screen again. "Is it supposed to take this long to turn on?" The tablet is still glowing white.

Grace looks at me weird. "It's fine, darling. Just the boot-up."

"I guess. I'm not great with tech."

Grace lets out a laugh. "That's an understatement if ever there was one! No, no, I'm afraid little miss Rosie Jones the country mouse is a little more than 'not great' with tech."

"Um… Grace…"

She snorts. "Remember that time you broke the oven? And that other time you broke the radio? Oh! And _that_ time you completely botched it up with your tab because it was the very first time you'd ever used one! I won't ev-"

"Grace."

Now she turns to me. "What?"

I turn the screen to face her. It's done booting up. But it isn't responding to my touch. The screen stays pitch-black, with leering green numbers etched into the center.

 _7 : 2 2,_ it reads. And steadily counting down.


	3. Judgement Day

**AN: Hello! Novemberly here, the girl who's behind all this. Just apologizing for the wait after the last couple chapters - I'm trying to get into a more regular update schedule. I promise you'll get a lot to read tomorrow, too! ****See you soon, and enjoy today's chapter! :p**

.

 **JONES**

 **7:08 AM - OCT 22**

We hit another pile of bricks, and everything in the car rolls around. I've stopped counting how much wreckage we've run over since Grace set our minimum speed at a hundred miles an hour.

"For god's sake…" she curses, wiping cold coffee off her fancy new skirt.

"You should really keep your eyes on the road, you know."

"Shut up, Jones. I'm doing the best I can."

If this is the best she can do, that's not good news. Why didn't I just insist on driving?

We hit another pile of bricks. I'm starting to feel queasy again.

"Sorry I yelled at you earlier…" I say tentatively. "I just… you _said_ it would be an hour before it dropped. And no offense, but now there's a _tiny_ chance we might die horrible deaths because you were wrong…"

Grace purses her lips. "Forty-five minutes. I didn't say it would be an hour."

I groan. "Just admit it was your fault, and I'll stop bugging you about it."

She slams on the brakes and jerks the truck into a sharp turn at breakneck speed. I'm about to throw up.

"I couldn't have known!" she nearly screams. "I couldn't have known they would drop the blasted thermonuclear bomb in—" she turns another sharp corner and curses with all the ferocity she can muster. "Eight minutes!"

"Seven minutes now," I mutter.

Grace lets out a groan that borders on a growl. "If you tell me the number on that clock one more time, I swear to god I'll rip your throat out."

I snort. "Sweet Lord, Grace. Tone it down a little."

She slams on the gas petal and we nearly hit a streetlight.

"Alright…" she mutters, a little more composed. "Seven minutes. That's enough, right? Seven minutes to make it across town… and lock down the bunker… and make sure Slate and Fuse get there, too… and pray on our lives that nothing goes wrong…"

"Praying's just about all we can do at this point," I say. "And maybe driving a little faster."

Grace slams on the gas again, and I regret my words immediately.

Inside, I'm trying not to panic. If I panic, then Grace will, too. And then we'll definitely die out here.

But if I keep calm, and pretend that I'm not terrified of the atomic missile just four minutes away, then there's a chance - just a slim little chance - that we'll make it in time.

"Damn it." Grace takes her feet off the pedals, and the truck rolls to a stop.

"Aren't we…" I begin, unable to process the view in front of us. "Aren't we on thirteenth street?"

"Thirteenth and eighth. The bunker's half a block away." Grace's voice sounds lacking, defeated.

"Half a block away…" I trail off.

In front of us is a toppled skyscraper. A hulking mass of twisted metal lying like a fallen giant across the street. Shattered glass glints in the layers of ash around it. When it stood, it must have been enormous - in its crushed state, it stands at least thirty feet above our heads, like a wall spanning the width of the lane.

Grace lets out a groan and slams her face on the steering wheel. "This is it. This is how we die. Blocked from salvation by a godforsaken building."

I glance at the tab in my hands. _6 : 3 8_ , it says. Six and a half minutes until the nuke is here.

I don't know what to do. I don't want to die. So I do the first thing I was taught. I close my eyes and start to pray.

"Jones. Jones, please stop," Grace says once she sees what I'm doing. "It's pathetic and you're making me sad."

I ignore her. I can't quite remember the prayer my mother used to love. I can't remember anything that well.

"Jones."

I open my eyes and groan. "Grace! Please just let me have a few second of peace so I can—"

I stop abruptly. Grace isn't in the car anymore. She's out and running quickly in the direction of the toppled skyscraper. For a moment, I wonder if it's some weird form of revenge aimed at me. But then I realize she's found something.

Something glinting and silver, just barely visible through the layer of pale ash on the sidewalk.

"Jones!" Grace exclaims. "Look!" Her voice is lighter now, and deliriously happy. She pulls something out of the wreckage and holds it upright.

I shove the tablet into my blazer and get out of the truck. As I walk towards Grace, the object in her hands grows clearer.

It's a ladder.

"We're saved!" she yells, almost dancing as she hops around the sidewalk. "We're going to live!" She releases the ladder and lets it lean against her shoulder as she pumps her fists into the air. "Screw you, nuke! By god, screw you!"

I try to laugh along with her, but something troubles me. It can't be this easy.

"And don't you dare think that this was your doing, Jones." Grace takes hold of the ladder again and stares daggers at me. "This had nothing to do with your spiritual nonsense, it was purely a coincidence. A damn good coincidence at that, though.

Something draws my attention away. A sound, maybe. Or a twitch of movement. I turn around and scan along the bottom of the wreckage. I swear there's something there.

"I mean, really! A ladder! Why, I'd cry for joy, if I was the type to do so. The very—"

"Grace."

"What? Oh, don't tell me it's not tall enough. It's one of the ones the use on emergency engines, I think. It's extendable!"

"No, I mean…" I trail off, pointing to an ash-covered lump in the street.

I watch Grace's face fall in slow motion. She blinks, seemingly not able to move.

But I'm moving as fast as I can. I sprint over to the lump at the base of the ruins, and brush the ashes away from it. I know as soon as I touch it that it's not just another piece of debris. Too vital. Too warm.

Dear Lord. It's Slate.

There's no question of it, as I brush the ashes away from his face. He's covered in cuts and gashes, and blood stains his army uniform. His jet-black hair, buzzed almost to the scalp, is clumped with ash and blood.

One of his legs is trapped under the fallen building, wedged between a slab of metal and block of concrete. It won't be easy to get him out of there. It might not even be possible.

His skin is even paler than usual, deathly pale. Like a ghost's.

I place a pair of fingers on his neck as soon as I come to my senses. Oh dear, no pulse. Wait. No, there is a pulse. I had my fingers in the wrong place.

I grimace. His heartbeat is weak. Fragile.

"Who is it?" Grace calls from across the street.

"It's Slate!" I yell back.

A pause.

"Who?"

I groan. "You know him! The recruit, the one who pulled you out of the wreckage of the Senate Tower on the night we took it down! He's the one who destroyed all those factories, he's the one who brought the District Twelve refugees over! He's a war hero, Grace!"

Grace's eyes flit between me and the ladder. It's leaned up against the wreckage now, extending just barely over it. "Is he alive?" she asks tentatively.

My face falls. I know Grace too well to pretend she's really asking. She knows damn well he's alive. And she's going to leave him behind anyway.

"Grace," I say, my voice lower now. "Grace, please. He needs our help."

She stares at me, her grey-blue eyes piercing. "Jones," she says slowly, in that honey-sweet voice of hers. "Come up the ladder."

I blink rapidly, trying to keep the tears out of my eyes. I've spent too long with Grace. She'd tricked me into thinking that she was normal person, that she felt things like a normal person. That she felt at all.

There's no emotion in her steely gaze, no love. One hand is on the ladder, one foot on its bottom rung.

"Jones." Her voice is cold. "I'm going to give you five seconds."

I glance from her to to the bleeding young man on the ground, then back again. His leg is trapped under the building - tightly trapped. I doubt I could get him out quickly.

How much time do we have left, before the bomb drops? Five minutes? Less?

For a moment, I decide that Grace is right. I take a step towards the ladder.

Then he moves. Just a twitch of the arm, and a flutter of his eyelids.

Just like that, I remember. Slate is my friend. I've known him longer than I've known Grace, or Fuse, or anyone else from the rebellion. He's like a brother to me. I'm not leaving him behind.

I raise my head and look at Grace, blinking the stinging tears away. "What if he was your daughter? What if Humility was lying on the ground here? Would you leave _her_ to die?"

Grace doesn't move a muscle. Only her icy eyes shift ever so slightly.

For a second, I think she's going to leave. Scamper up that ladder and over the building and leave me to die out here, cold and ash-covered and alone. It would be like her to do that. It would be so horribly like her.

But she doesn't. With a loud, agonized sigh and a haughty roll of her eyes, she steps off the ladder.

"You better not make me regret this," she says as she walks over to me.

I laugh and throw my arms around her, relieved. She cringes and tries to wriggle out of it. Grace doesn't like hugs.

"Thank you, Callie," I whisper before letting go.

"Alright," She smooths out her skirt and retreats back into her personal space. "We're going to need to deal with that leg first. How bad is it?"

I wipe the ashes away and cringe. "Pretty bad."

Grace groans. "Okay then. We'll… we'll get it out somehow. Did you try to wake him up yet?"

"N-no…" I stammer. "I thought you're supposed to keep someone unconscious. It could hurt him if he wakes up, right?"

Grace kneels over him and rolls her eyes. "Who's the one with the medical training?"

"Slate. He's a registered medic and he has years of experience as a doctor. He saved over a hundred people in the—"

She interrupts me with a loud groan. "Who's the _conscious_ one with the medical training?"

I purse my lips. "A first aid course at your old high school does not count as medical training."

"Did you take the course?"

I sigh. "No."

Grace smiles sweetly. "Then I guess I'm the one in charge!"

I curse under my breath.

"Slate," Grace says, her hands on his cheeks. "Slate, can you hear us?"

No response—he's as limp as a cadaver.

"What's his first name?" Grace whispers to me.

"Ira."

She stifles a laugh.

"What?"

"Nothing, darling…" She snorts.

"It's a common boy's name in District Two!"

"I'm not saying it isn't!" She's still trying not to laugh.

"It's not like—"

Slate's eyelids flutter.

Without warning, Grace slaps him in the face, with quite a bit more strength than I'd expect from a hundred-and-ten-pound government worker.

"Grace!" I scold. "He's injured!"

"Well, now he's injured and awake. Aren't you, darling?"

Slate groans and tries to shift his arm. He opens his narrow eyes slightly and stares up at Grace.

"Alexia…" he mutters.

Grace tilts her head. "Who's Alexia?" she whispers to me.

"His sister," I whisper back.

She nods.

"Slate," I take hold of his head and turn it towards me. "This isn't Alexia, this is Calpurnia Grace. You met her once, remember?"

His eyes are distant and foggy.

"Look, Slate. We're going to get you out of—"

A roaring comes across the empty air. A deafening _boom_ shakes the ground beneath our feet, and buildings shudder. Something enormous streaks overhead.

As soon as he hears it, Slate begins to struggle violently. "It's the… it's the planes, they're here… go, you need to go… bunker.. The bomb—" His words are cut off when he spits up blood.

"Slate!" I place my hands on his head again.

"Looks like we don't have much time left," says Grace, rubbing her hands to get the dust off. Is it my imagination, or did her eyes just drift to the ladder for a moment? "We'll have to see what we can do about that leg."

Grace pulls the shreds of the right leg of Slate's cargo pants away from the wreckage's edge. She grimaces.

"Is it bad?" I ask, not taking my eyes of Slate's blood-covered face.

"Well," Grace's voice is strained. "Bad news—that metal pole is actually going _through_ his leg, not beside it as I first thought."

"Seriously?!"

"But, good news—it's only the muscle tissue and fat that's actually trapped, and the humerus is completely fine."

Slate grunts. "With… all due respect, Miss Grace—" He breaks into a bout of coughing.

"The humerus is in the arm, Callie," I finish.

She pauses. "Yes. Obviously. I know that."

Slate grimaces. He doesn't seem very enthusiastic about his new nurse.

"Well, we're going to need to get his leg out of there if we've got any chance of making it to the bunker. And if we're going to do it quickly—"

Another roar shatters the sky. Ash rains down like a whirl of snow, and I can hear buildings toppling in the distance.

Grace clenches her jaw. "If we're going to do it _quickly,_ " She reaches into the back of her blouse, grasping for something. "We're going to need some alternative methods." In one fluid motion, she pulls out a knife.

"What?" I exclaim. "No, you—you can't do that! You can't cut his leg off!"

Grace rolls her eyes. "I'm not going to cut it _off,_ darling. I'm just going to cut _into_ a bit of it. Enough to get him out of there."

I try to steady my breathing. I think I'm starting to hyperventilate. "Slate," I lean in close to his face. "Slate, you're a medic. This can't be advisable, right?"

He's unconscious again. No answer.

I look back at Grace. She's smiling like a cat who's just caught a mouse. "Doctor's orders, darling."

Before I can stop her, she plunges the knife into Slate's leg.

He wakes up immediately and yelps. I scream a bit, too. I can't help it.

"Calm down, children. It'll be over soon," Grace grits her teeth and moves the knife around a bit. I throw up in my mouth a little.

Slate is sweating and breathing hard, but he doesn't seem in too much pain. He must be pumped to the gills with adrenaline and shock hormones, numbing his pain. I don't have that luxury.

Another _boom_ quakes the asphalt. I don't know what the noises are. Planes? No—bombs, probably. Small ones, to whet our appetite before the entree comes.

The nuke is the entree, probably. Or the desert. I'm not good at metaphors.

"Almost done…" Grace's pristine blouse is covered in blood now. With the makeup smeared over her face, and the cuts making her body, she looks like something you'd see in a horror movie—a knife-wielding lunatic just escaped from the old asylum. Inwardly, I snort. If only I had a camera. Grace would do anything to get rid of a picture of herself looking like this.

"There!" Grace withdraws the knife. "Good as new! Can you move him now?"

I don't want to look at her handiwork, but it seems she's done a good job. I can drag Slate a few inches away from the wreckage, but he's trailing far too much blood. His skin is getting paler by the second.

"Jones. Give me your shirt." Grace's voice is imperative.

"What? No!"

Grace groans. "You have a blazer on, for god's sake. Just button it up!"

I roll my eyes. "Fine." I turn away, and yank my blouse over my head, not bothering with all the buttons that pop off. I quickly button up my blazer and turn back towards Grace.

"Here," I shove the shirt into her hands.

She tears it open, doing away with the remaining buttons, and wraps it around Slate's leg. The fabric turns red almost immediately, but it stops the flow of blood.

"That'll do until we get some real medical supplies," says Grace.

Another boom, further away this time. The nuke will be dropping soon.

"Let's get him into the bunker. Quickly, come on." Inside, I'm nearing panic.

I hoist Slate up from under his arms, and Grace takes hold of his legs. Together, we carry him over to the ladder.

It's a blur in my head, as the three of us climb. We stumble across the pile of mangled metal, and back down to the asphalt on the other side. I don't know how long it takes to get to the old apartment building, and down its concrete stairs. My mind is spinning.

.

We're at the basement level when it happens. First there's the noise, like a baseball whizzing past my head, but louder. Then tremors that rock the building, then a deafening _boom._

Dust begins to fall from the ceiling, then chunks of concrete. A whine of metal supports straining against their own weight. The building is collapsing.

Grace screams. A cinderblock falls from above, missing her head by just a few inches.

"Come on!" I urge her, and we keep going. Slate is awake now, and he seems to be struggling. I think he wants to walk by himself. He can't, though. Not with that leg.

Part of the ceiling collapses in behind us. Can't stop now.

The bunker entrance is a little metal door, shoved into a corner of the room below the basement. A keypad is next to it, glowing a faint blue.

We're so close to safety. I can taste it now.

I punch in the code with one hand, supporting Slate with the other. I clench my jaw. Can't stop now.

Something slams into the floor with incredible force. A sound, like crunching ice, but louder. I turn, and my face falls.

Grace is splayed out on the cement floor, trapped under debris from the waist down.

I groan. "Not you too…"

The door to the bunker is open now, exposing a long, dim hallway. I set Slate down and push him through the threshold. Can't stop now.

I run over to Grace and pull with all my strength. She isn't too tightly trapped - she slides out enough to expose her shredded pencil skirt and a bit of her legs.

"Jones! There you -" I turn. Fuse is standing at the bunker's door. Poor kid. He wasn't ready for this. His face is paler than snow as he stares at the two bodies crumpled on the ground.

I grit my teeth. Can't stop now.

I pull Grace out the rest of the way. She's unconscious, and bleeding heavily now. She looks a bit like Sleeping Beauty and a bit like a crazy old witch.

I don't waste too much time staring, though. I take her in my arms and sprint into the bunker.

I push Fuse out of the way and practically throw Grace to the floor. Slate is sitting up now, glancing around and disoriented. Apparently I'm the only one in working order.

I grab the door's handle and slam it shut. It's over.

For a second, the lights of the hallway cast a faint red glow over everything. It feels like a dream. Like a nightmare. My lungs are heavy and my mind dazed. My heartbeat slows. The world is calmer now. It's silent, except for the heavy breathing of all four of us.

Then I remember.

The radiation lock. Damn it.

I turn back to the door and reach for the rusty lever welded to it. I grab the handle and pull it down, just before—

The nuke hits. I can feel it. In my bones, in my soul. There's a feeling, deep in my gut, that something's wrong.

The earth shakes. Everything flips upside-down. It all goes dark.

.

Did I lock it in time?


	4. The Last Horseman

**AN: Hey there! Sorry, Novemberly again. I promise I won't keep interrupting this much!** **Just wanted to let you guys know that there's a poll up on my profile right now. You can head over there to tell us which days of the week are your favorite for fic reading. It'll help a lot with my update planning!**

 **And, just so I don't have to clear this up later, I should let you know that this story is told equally from three different points of view. You guys just got acquainted with the first character, so we're on to the second. Sorry if it's a change of pace - I promise we'll get back to Jones and her crew before you know it! :)**

.

 **CARD**

 **7:17 AM - OCT 22**

The little green dot on the map flickers. Then disappears.

"So," I venture. "That's… it."

No response. Someone coughs.

A hand pats me on the back lightly. "Good work, Card," a gruff voice whispers in my ear. It's Marches. I don't know why he's being so quiet.

Across the room, Ream clasps his hands and grins. "Well! I think this calls for a party, don't you?"

No one answers. The air in the control room is heavy, dense. Like it's solid, like it's hard. It feels stuffy and smells like bleach. I'm nauseous, even though I wasn't a second ago.

There are about a dozen of us, all clustered around a single screen. A couple others are scattered throughout the cramped metal room, staring at other screens and poking at keyboards. Ream is standing behind the screen, facing the group. He's smiling like an idiot.

I stare at the space on the map where the little green dot used to be. Everyone is staring at it, I think. I try to summon up some shred of feeling from my chest. I can't.

"So, the war is over then?" someone with a district accent asks from behind me.

Ream chuckles. It's the kind of chuckle only politicians have, all deep and hearty. I've never heard an honest person chuckle like that. "Of course it is, sweetheart."

"And we won!" Monarch pipes up from behind him in her soprano voice. "Isn't it just wonderful?"

Their cheer doesn't seem to have infected the rest of us. Still only silence comes from the room.

To my left, I hear someone's breath. They seem to be hyperventilating. I glance in their direction, more curious than concerned. It's the boy who operated all the computers, the one who put the targeting system back online. And _boy_ does seem to be the right word—he can't be older than twenty-five. He looks like he's on the edge of a panic attack, but he's hiding it well. The only giveaway is his ragged, mile-a-minute breathing.

I'm intrigued by his appearance. He doesn't look Capitol. Just plain dark skin and wild hair, along with stubble that seems to have gone quite a while without having been shaved. He's dressed in a dirty tank top and old sweatpants, like he's just gotten out of bed.

"Well, _I'm_ thrilled," says Monarch. "Let's get up, let's do something! Wouldn't that be nicer than standing around staring at a screen?"

No response.

Ream bellows out now. "Come on! What are you waiting for? The screen's not gonna change!"

Like that, the enchantment falls away. A few people sit down, a few take out comms, and a blessed few simply walk out the door. A low murmur fills the room as people begin to talk again.

I slump into a chair by the screen and run a hand over my face. When was the last time I showered? I take my hair down, then immediately tie it back up again. Not for the first time, I notice a few strands of grey mixed in with the black. When did I get so old?

"Hello there!" a chirp from behind makes me almost jump.

"Whoops! Didn't mean to startle you, sweets."

It's Sepurcia Monarch, the president's personal assistant, daintily perched on the metal counter beside me. She's blue today. She's blue a lot. A cerulean bob and a fluffy dress the color of the sky, paired with bright azure boots and lipstick. She sparkles with enough jewelry to outshine the Milky Way.

"It's Card, isn't it?" Her voice is too high-pitched to be real.

"Yes," I reply curtly. I don't have the energy for anything else.

"Oh! That's… a nice name, I suppose. I just wanted to ask you where you got that suit!"

I don't register her words for a moment. "My… suit."

She nods, her head bobbing like a blueberry.

"Yeah…" I fumble around for the tag, even though I know I cut it off when I bought it. My brain isn't working right today. "It's, uh… Carver's, I think."

"Huh! Lovely…" She pauses for a second. "Isn't that a men's store?"

"Men's suits are cheaper."

She nods slowly, her enormous eyes wide. "Well, I… I suppose that is a fresh perspective indeed!"

I don't respond. Maybe she'll go away if I don't respond.

Someone taps me on the shoulder and I whip around. It's Marches, his stone-carved face grim as usual. "Card," he says in that gravelly voice. "You're needed."

"Yes, General." Without turning back to Sepurcia, I get up. As I follow the general out of the room, I can hear her chattering off to someone else already.

General Marches leads me down a long metal hallway. I remember it from when all of us entered the room. How long ago was that? Ten hours? More?

It's cold out here. Not as stuffy as the control room, but still cold.

Abruptly, Marches stops and turns to a door. He peers through the dark window for a second, his face grim. I don't have time to read the room's label before he swings the door open.

The room beyond is small and dark. It's no bigger than a hotel bathroom, and the black-painted walls give it the illusion of being even more cramped. A fold-out table is against one wall, the only furniture. The other wall is completely taken up by what seems to be an enormous mirror.

General Marches flicks the light on, casting the room in a dim yellow glow. My eyebrows go up. It's not a mirror. It's a window, the glass darkly tinted.

I know what this room is now. An interrogation room. I'm glad I'm on this side of the glass.

Beyond the window is a man. He sits at a metal table, in a metal chair, with metal cuffs around his wrists. He has his head buried in his hands.

To him, the sheet of glass must look like a mirror. I don't think he knows we're here.

"Who is he?" I ask, my voice lower than a whisper.

"Jay Kristoff," the general whispers back.

I can't help but widen my eyes. "Kristoff? _That_ Kristoff?"

The general nods.

I stare at the man through the window. This can't be him. Jay Kristoff is the figurehead of the rebellion, the renegade that stirred up this whole mess in he first place. In the districts, he's a hero. Here, he's a monster. He's been in every rebel broadcast since the start of all this, his pretty face plastered on every poster. Nearly everyone in Panem knows his name.

But this isn't Jay Kristoff. This is some sad, broken man, much older and so much more lost-looking than the charismatic young firebrand on the news.

"How did you catch him?" I ask, slightly incredulous.

"Stroke of luck. Crazy good luck. Someone reported him. When we got there, he was at Emerson Hospital in the northern sector of District Four."

The door opens. I whip around, startled. It's just Ream, his pristine white suit gleaming under the yellow light. He still has that winning smile on his face. It seems forced and unnatural, coupled with the wary look in his eyes.

"Hello there! General, Secretary." He nods the Marches and me, in turn. "Fantastic day, isn't it?"

Kristoff, beyond the two-way mirror, jerks upright and glances around the room.

The general places a finger to his lips. Ream nods and furrows his brow apologetically.

"So…" Ream has quite a loud whisper. "What's going on with this fellow?"

President Dominus Ream is quite possibly the best politician I've ever met. When it comes to people, to the people—what they want, what they need, what they hate and what they love—he's a genius. Better than Hawking, they say. Better than Einstein. At least that's what some people say. Honestly, I don't think he's all that. He lets things slip sometimes. He can be arrogant, he can be careless. He acts like this well-meaning everyman in an attempt to appeal to voters. But he keeps up the act when things are serious. Don't get me wrong, he's a master of the political game, but he plays it like just that—a game. Occasionally I wonder if he's so absorbed with keeping his power that he forgets just how much he has.

Still. There are times, when I'm being very quiet, when he forgets I'm in the room, that he's someone else. Someone with wildness in his eyes and insanity in his muttering. Those times are when it's not funny at all.

Sometimes I think he's a psychopath. Sometimes I think he's an idiot. The man's an enigma.

"That," says Marches, in response to Ream's question. "Is Jailbird."

I assume that's Kristoff's code name. The man has his head in his hands again. If I were a different person, I'd probably feel sorry for him. But I'm me. So I don't.

Ream nods, setting his jaw just so. He always acts like he's in front of a camera, even when he's not. "What are we gonna do about him?" He runs a hand through his hair, a snowy blonde so pale that it's almost white. It gleams in the dim yellow glow of the room.

"It's already worked out." Marches glances at the president with an intensity in his eyes. Jealousy, maybe. The general hasn't had enough hair to run his hand through in years, only a bit of stubble on his scalp and chin. His head looks like one of those Easter Island statues—all serious and unmoving. His skin is a bit peachier than solid stone, though.

"Card, you're going in first," the stone man says, his voice definitive. He shoves a binder into my hand. I assume it's Jailbird's file.

I nod. I don't really want to go first, but there's no use contesting orders. There's a door wedged in beside the huge two-way mirror, and I walk towards it. I make sure to keep my face as serious and unmoving as one of those ancient statues. It's not difficult. I'm like that most of the time.

I open the door.

Jay Kristoff whips around, wildness in his eyes. His hair is greasy and his face unshaven. He looks like he's risen from the grave. That's good. It's nice to meet someone else who's dead inside.

I close the door behind me and give him a curt nod. "Jay Kristoff. I'm Secretary of Jurisdiction Card."

He doesn't answer. He's staring at me strangely, like I'm a ghost. I do that to people who haven't met me before. I guess I creep them out a bit.

Without waiting for his response, I make my way over to the opposite side of the table and sit down. His head swivels to follow me.

"So," I begin, my voice low and measured. "Mr. Kristoff."

I'm close enough to see his eyes now - they're a piercing pale blue. It's unnerving. Ream has those eyes.

Come to think of it, there's something about the man in front of me that reminds me of the president. They have the same charisma, the same natural charm. Except Ream's charm isn't natural. And Kristoff's charm has deserted him now.

"Yes…" he mutters, the first words I've heard him speak. His chestnut hair is wild, like he stuck a fork in an electrical socket.

"Do you care to tell me how you got here?"

Jay's cognitive speed seems to have slowed to a crawl. He takes a long moment to process my words before he furrows his brows and glowers at me.

I sigh. "So you're not going to tell me?"

He doesn't move.

I take a long breath, and lean back in my chair. Looks like I'm going to be here for a while.

They shouldn't have brought me in. I'm not trained in interrogation.

It occurs to me that Kristoff's capture is probably highly classified. It's possible that I'm the best interrogator among the select few with the security clearance to know about this.

He's still staring at me. Like one of those cats on the side of the road, that don't take their eyes off you no matter how long you wait.

I should probably do something now. I don't know what.

Moving slowly, I open the binder. There's all sorts of stuff in there. Papers, photos, police reports. A little snapshot of Jay when he must've been five, proudly holding up a miniature replica of an atomic bomb. I flip through, and the files give way to more recent events. A burning building. A still from an anti-Capitol propaganda video. The autopsy report for an assassinated congresswoman.

There's information on his friends, comrades, even family. Both parents deceased. No spouse. He has a daughter.

There are a disturbing number of pictures of the girl. Some are school pictures, ID photos, easy things to get a hold of. Others are less ordinary—one snapshot looks like the photographer was hidden in the bushes, another was taken through the girl's bedroom window. There is one where she is alone at night, scanning the bare city streets around her. She looks scared.

It says her name is Ahava Diana Ingleman. She has severe asthma and mild anxiety disorder. She was born fourteen and a half years ago.

There's a lot of information on her. Someone must have thought she was important.

She's got freckles and long strawberry blonde hair, and she looks like one of those artsy fairy girls from rom-coms. She's fat, in a cute way. She wears a lot of pink.

"What are you doing?" asks Kristoff. I'd almost forgotten about him. For some reason, he broke his vow of silence. He must have seen the photos of his daughter, judging by the worried look on his face.

"Just getting acquainted with Ahava. Nice girl, isn't she?"

That freaks him out a bit. People do that when you mention their family. It makes them think their loved ones are in danger, too. Makes them more likely to confess.

I don't know a lot about interrogation, but I know enough. Two years on the police force can teach you things.

"Adi."

I pause and glance at him. "What."

"Her name is Adi."

I go back to her file. No. It's not.

"It's her initials," Kristoff says. "Ahava Diana Ingleman. Adi."

I raise my eyebrows. "Cute name. Do her friends call her that?"

Kristoff doesn't respond. I look up at him, to meet a gaze so searing and icy that I'm surprised it doesn't burn holes in the wall behind me.

"Don't bring her into this. Don't." His voice is low but cold as stone. He thinks I can't hear the worry behind it. I can.

If I were the type of person to smile, I would. He's just given us a deadly weakness. His daughter. She's his Achilles' heel. This interrogation just got a whole lot easier.

"Jay, are you planning on giving us the location of your comrades who are still at large?"

Jay scoffs. "Which ones?"

I've been on this case so long, I can recite the names from memory. "Rose Maria Jones, Calpurnia Candice Grace, Dustin Ford, Fuse Noah Corden, Marina Vale, and Ira Slate."

He lets out a laugh. "No. I won't tell you."

"Would that change?"

He shakes his head.

"Would that change if I gave you live audio of your daughter locked in a room with a dozen hives of tracker jackers?"

Like that, the room gets ten degrees colder. Kristoff's eyes are wide.

"She isn't that room now, of course. She won't have to go in that room if you just tell me what I want to know."

Kristoff hesitates for a moment, then scoffs. "No. You don't have her. Legally, you can't. She's a District Thirteen citizen, and if you tortured her, you'd be breaking the terms of the ceasefire pact."

I grit my teeth. He's got us there. "Nevertheless, Mr. Kristoff. This is your last chance. Where are your colleagues?"

He smiles, his mouth tightly shut. He's not planning on telling us anything.

A soft _blip_ comes from my pocket. I purse my lips.

"One moment, Mr. Kristoff," I say as I pull out my comm.

The screen is the size of a playing card, with a message stamped across the top in glowing letters. It's from General Marches.

 _He doesn't know,_ it reads.

I grit my teeth.

 _Then why am I here?_ I message back.

There's a few seconds of nothing, then a reply comes through.

 _New intel. Splitting up was unplanned. He can't know where the others are._

I sigh.

 _Then what do I do?_

The message comes after a moment.

 _Wrap it up._

I sigh, and stand from my chair. "That will be all, Mr. Kristoff." I gather the binder in one hand and walk towards the door.

"What?" Kristoff's voice is shaky. "But… aren't you going to interrogate me?"

I pause, one hand on the door handle. "Mr. Kristoff, you have already gone through advanced interrogation methods, is this true?"

His laugh is like sandpaper. "You mean torture?"

I'll take that as a yes. "And through all of it, you never once confessed to the crimes you were charged with, and never gave any information on the radicalist movement you have instigated?"

Jay stays silent, rocking back and forth in his chair slightly. He face looks wild. That's the face of a man who's been through hell. "No."

I turn back towards him. "Then we no longer have any use for you."

His face falls. "What…"

On the other side of the room, a different door swings open. A pair of soldiers file in, and place themselves on either side of the man.

"Jay Kristoff," I say, my voice cold. "You are under arrest by the government of Panem on the charges of terrorism, disturbing the peace, aggressions against the government of Panem, murder, conspiracy, and treason."

One of the soldiers undoes his handcuffs. Kristoff's face is blank.

"The punishment for these crimes is death."

Each soldier grabs one of his arms. Their grip is tighter than a crocodile's jaws.

"You'll be coming with me." With that, I open the door and walk out.

.

.

.

.

The interior of the army truck is stuffy and smells like spoiled milk. There are stains everywhere, and one of the seats is falling apart. The back window is pockmarked with what looks like bullet holes. Honestly, I'm not surprised. Compared to my own car, this thing is a luxury ride.

I'm sitting in the back seat, with Kristoff next to me. He's handcuffed behind his back again, and this time ankle-cuffed, too. He's panicking but trying to hide it. Sweat drips down his hairline.

One of the soldiers is driving. She's young, with wispy blonde hair and pale eyes. I wonder how she has this much security clearance. The other soldier sits in the passenger seat. He's a boy, but they look alike enough to be siblings.

Kristoff is staring at me with intensity. There's a special brand of crazy in his eyes. I wonder what kind of torture they put him through to get him like this.

"You're weird, you know that?" His voice surprises me.

I look out the window and try to ignore him. We must've crossed into District Nine by now, after eighteen minutes of driving, according to my watch. Fields upon fields of wheat are rolling past. When I was younger, less weary, less burdened, I might've remarked on the beauty of the fields in the morning light. Now I don't see any of that beauty. I think I've forgotten how.

"You're like… You're like a spider." Kristoff hasn't stopped. "Wait, no… a zombie."

I sigh, and turn to him.

"My mother used to say there was a little bit of the devil in some people." He's grinning like a madman, his knees tucked against his chest as he rocks back and forth. "I think you've got more than a little bit."

I stealthily finger the outline of the gun in my jacket.

"You've got this… darkness, don't you? Like you've already died." His throat sounds dry. His smile is slowly fading. "It's the way you move, I think. All slow and trailing like a ghost. It feels like flies should be buzzing around you."

I don't respond. We're staring at each other, his icy blue eyes unfocused.

"Maybe you're one of the four horsemen. Since the end of the world's coming and all. Maybe plague? Famine?"

He's staring off into space now, rambling to himself. "No. It's death, I think. You're all skinny and white. Death, I think it is. Definitely. It's the way you move, all sure and slow. You'd look good with a scythe."

He seems to be looking through the window behind me. The wheat fields are still rolling by.

"A pale horse…" he mutters, and trails off.

The truck sputters to a stop.

There's silence for a moment. Nothing but the soft whisper of the wheat fields in the wind.

There's a creak of metal as the two soldiers leave the vehicle. The boy opens the door of Kristoff's side and forcefully pulls him out, while the girl opens my door and politely stands aside.

The four of us regroup at the side of the old dirt road, and I step into the field.

The wheat is waist-high. It leaves trails of dew on my suit's jacket.

"You don't have to do this. Really." Kristoff's voice quivers. He's beside me now, dragged along by the two soldiers. For the first time, he looks scared.

"I'll… I'll tell you where the others are."

I snort.

"I'll tell you! I promise, I will! Just let me go!"

"Don't try that, kid. I'm not stupid."

He stares at me. "W-What?"

"We know you've got no idea where your pals are. That's all right. We'll find 'em anyway."

He's stammering now, his breathing quick. "But… but I do know! I'll tell you!" He struggles against the soldiers, but they hold his arms tighter. "They're in District Three! In Arcadia! There's a bunker there, they're gonna ride out the bomb!" He's yelling now. "Dustin and Marina are in Twelve! Rose Jones, she's the one you want, right? She's the one you're looking for! She's in the bunker! Grace is with her! I'm telling the truth, I promise!"

I sigh. "Don't bother lying. It doesn't work."

"It's the tru—"

One of the soldiers forces a hand over his mouth.

He kicks and writhes in their arms. He's weak, though. They're always too weak.

He manages to throw the girl's hand off his face, and he lets out a blood-curdling scream into the chilly air.

It's no use. There's no one to hear him, all the way out here. No one but the wheat.

All four of us stop. The soldiers haul Kristoff in front of me, so we're face-to-face. They force him to the ground and hold him still. It's easy. He's not fighting it anymore.

I pull the gun out of the pocket of my jacket.

"Please…" the man whispers. "I don't want to die."

I sigh. "Sorry, kid."

I click the safety off. "Nothing personal."

Aim it straight at his head. "Just business."

A shot rings out into the chilly morning air.

Silence.

Silence, except for the whisper of wheat fields in the wind.


End file.
